


A beautiful blasphemy

by Lost_gallifrey



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Gwyndolin is socially incompetent, Kinky stuff, Light Bondage, Light Pain Play, M/M, Multi, Ornstein is conflicted and dirty, Other, Possibly Unrequited Love, Shameless Smut, Smough thinks this is all very amusing, Threesome, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9373568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lost_gallifrey/pseuds/Lost_gallifrey
Summary: Dragonslayer Ornstein's curiosity about Dark Sun Gwyndolin goes in a direction neither of them expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _I really have no rational excuse for this one, and will probably be a bit shocked if anyone actually reads it. :D_
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> _I've tried to keep things as canon compliant as I can, with some obvious tweaks because honestly I couldn't write smut if Oreo & Smores never left the Cathedral, and Gwyndolin lurked in Gwyn's tomb the whole damn time. I have no idea if any of this lot eat, sleep or do anything other than guard things.....but I'd like to think they only did that for the Chosen undead's benefit, and between visits they were having one big kinky smut-fest. _

There was something almost eerie about the silence in Anor Londo. It hadn't always been that way, Ornstein could remember when the halls had rung with voices and the miracles of the Gods had hung in the air like the sharp scent of lightning after a storm. Now the only sound was the metallic click of his footsteps on the stairs and the occasional rustle of wings as the messengers shifted on their perches. 

Smough always told him this daily sojourn was a pointless waste of time, but Ornstein felt compelled to make it anyway. After all, there was little else to do in the silent, tranquil city until the bells signified the arrival of another chosen undead. 

This morning, if it could truly be called that, as the sun never rose or set, had been no different and Ornstein was still smarting from Smough's wordless dismissal when he had rose from their shared bed, forsaking further pleasure for duty. He told himself it mattered little what the massive executioner thought, he would remain loyal to whatever remnants of the Gods remained, no matter what others thought of his loyalty.

The lever that operated the old lift moved sluggishly as it turned, accompanied by the screech of metal as the ancient mechanism began its descent. The earsplitting noise was an almost welcome break from the oppressive silence, even if the shrillness was enough to make Ornstein grit his teeth behind the snarling lion visage of his helm. 

The bonfire, so long unlit, smelled faintly of ashes and char, and Ornstein couldn't help but wonder if the remains of kindled undead would ever tempt Smough. The fact that he could idly think such a question about a man he knew intimately made Ornstein shudder; he who had strode proudly into battle behind Lord Gwyn and his heir now reduced to allowing the touch of a degenerate who's appetites would turn the stomach of even the hardiest warriors. 

Down the stairs the flickering light of four candles made the ever present mist shimmer. Small puddles of wax were pooling on the carpet, and Ornstein had to wonder who replaced the tapers every time they burned down. The thought of the last Lord of Anor Londo reduced to searching the kitchens for candles and picking wax from the threads of a much worn carpet was so ludicrous he nearly laughed at the image. 

Swallowing his mirth, Ornstein went to one knee before the doorway in which fog swirled so thickly it became a physical barrier. “Are you well, my lord?” 

As he often was, Ornstein was answered by silence and the faint echo of his own voice. Gwyn's lastborn was a shy and secretive deity, often only speaking to the few ragged, but loyal knights who swore their oath of fealty to him. In the years he had spent in the abandoned city, Ornstein had seen little more than a few flashing glimpses of his lord, and he had to admit that curiosity played as large a part of this daily ritual as fealty did. 

“Do you require anything, my lord?” Ornstein tried again. “I can bring you food or drink if you would like.” 

“I want for nothing.” A soft voice said from surprisingly close, as if the speaker was as close to the fog as they could be without being seen. “Attend thy duties, dragonslayer.” 

It was a typical dismissal, but Ornstein stayed a few moments longer, sure he could ear a sharp breath from behind the fog and curious if he would be spoken to more. After a few minutes of utter silence, he bowed and rose to his feet. Perhaps this was as pointless as Smough always made out....

 

____________________________________________________________________

With little else to do, Ornstein had spent the rest of the day walking the boundaries of the abandoned city. The ranks of guardian knights stood unmoving even when he paused in his march to rest a hand on the base of a shattered statue, allowing himself a moment to regret what could have been.

“And did you and that arrogant little lordling have a good chat?” Smough asked as Ornstein strode into their shared quarters. “Or did he just remind you to heel like an unruly cur?” 

“You dance with blasphemy, Smough.” Ornstein reprimanded, pulling off his helm and fixing the executioner with a severe gaze. “Lord Gwyndolin is Gwyn's son...”

“And if he wasn't, someone would have put him over their knee and spanked some manners into his royal arse long ago.” Smough paused in the meticulous polishing of his armor, and a slight smile touched his broad face. “Now that's a nice image to ponder.”

“Must you be so vulgar?” Ornstein sighed, knowing that Smough was only attempting to get a reaction. He was often successful simply because he was bored enough to keep pressing the issue until he earned a retaliation. “Imagine if you were heard.”

“Hmmm.” Smough chuckled and carefully set his armor aside, rising with ease and stepping up behind Ornstein. 'Maybe your lord would like to hear it, who knows what gets that one hot. What if all these walls are nothing more than his sorcery so he can watch us fuck.”

“Your fantasy. Not mine.” Ornstein said sharply, deliberately ignoring Smough's breath against the nape of his neck and the slow deliberate way his hands were working at the catches of his armor. “I find nothing appealing in your lack of reverence.” 

A fool would have assumed Smough was clumsy or ponderous with his movements, but in truth every motion was careful and restrained, gentle only when he wished to curb his own strength. There was an unhurried air about him even when he was removing Ornsteins familiar armor and letting his powerful hands wander over the skin he uncovered.

“And what is your fantasy, hmmm?” Smough said lowly against Ornstein's neck, the press of his tongue followed by the sharp sting of teeth. “You never tell me what you dream about....The Princess' lovely tits? Or maybe you like them small and pale? Do you still lust after the firstborn, you were always trotting at his heels....”

Ornstein swung his elbow back as hard as he could. It was like hitting stone, but it was enough to make Smough grunt in surprise and stop talking. Even though it had been years, the wounds left by the firstborn's departure still gnawed and stung; all it took was an idle thought or a careless word to bring the pain back to the forefront. 

“This would be much more enjoyable if you kept your yammering mouth shut.”

“That so?” Despite the obvious amusement in his voice, Smough knew enough to leave the subject alone. His hands were oddly gentle, perhaps as an apology for his reckless tongue, as he tugged the last of Ornstein's armor fee and set it down beside his own, powerful fingers nimbly undoing the lacings on the front of his trousers.“You don't usually have complaints about my mouth.”

“Be silent!” Ornstein snapped, turning to kiss Smough as savagely as he was able, his anger making him rougher than usual. There was the sharp tang of blood in his mouth, and he was revolted when Smough moaned at the taste, his hands grasping at Ornstein's hips to pull him closer. 

The first time Ornstein had allowed Smough's touch it had been fueled by rage and disgust. A shamefully brief moment of desperate grasping and grinding that left him shaking and ashamed in its wake. As their assignment dragged on through endless days, it had gone from a moment of weakness to a commonplace lapse in judgment that he didn't even usually bother feeling guilt about. His knights were gone, his Lords were gone.....what was the use of pretending otherwise. 

The softness of the mattress against his back was as familiar as the weight of Smough settling between his thighs.“Look at me, dragonslayer.” It was half plea and half command, a hand tightening in Ornstein's hair for a moment before cupping his jaw. 

Ornstein gasped, shaking as Smough pressed into him; a pleasure that bordered on pain. The executioner's face was almost rapturous, disturbingly similar to how he looked when he picked at the flesh of the fallen....little wet pieces in his fingers and the sickening crunch of breaking bone. There were times Ornstein wondered what would become of him when he inevitably fell in battle, would Smough pick him apart like a hulking carrion bird, grind his bones beneath the shattering weight of his great hammer. What was wrong with him that he sometimes wished it could be so. 

By the time Smough shuddered through his release they were both slick with sweat and Ornstein ached in a way that made his body feel hazy. He groaned, half in relief and half with loss when Smough pulled away, the protest turning to surprised pleasure as the executioner bent to take him in his mouth. 

Madness. That's what the other knights would have called this, madness and foolishness. He had laughed with the others when they'd presented Smough with the grotesque mockery of his armor, but he wasn't laughing now. 

Smough swallowed him down with nothing more than a low hum of appreciation, eyes closed and throat working as if he had been given something worthy of savoring. A big hand, seamed with old scars stroked over his hip. “You feeling better now, Ornstein?”

“I wasn't aware I was unwell,” Ornstein replied peevishly. The lassitude of relaxation was creeping in, and it was hard to glare when his body felt like it was sinking into the down filled mattress. “But yes, if you must know, I feel well.”

“Good.” Smough rose and padded over to the fireplace, the light playing over his broad back as he knelt to stir something that had been warming in a kettle by the hearth. He grunted in what Ornstein assumed was satisfaction before ladling a generous helping into a bowl, spreading a scent of stewing meat that smelled grotesquely appealing. “You want some of this?”

Ornstein couldn't help but curl his lip at the concept. Whatever Smough was holding out had lumps of some dark meat floating in it, and although it could well be some salt meat from the kitchens, but the alternative made him want to gag. He might have foolishly fallen from grace and reason, but he was no monster...

Not even dignifying the offer with a response, Ornstein turned over, trying to ignore both the sound of Smough chewing and the subtle rumble of his own stomach. 

“Suit yourself,” Smough laughed through a mouthful of food. “It's just stew, dragonslayer, nothing more.”

Even with that reassurance, and the complaints of his own gut, Ornstein closed his eyes and fell asleep through sheer force of will.

____________________________________________________________________

It was sometime in the middle of what passed for night, that Ornstein woke to the snarling of his own stomach. He had been foolish not to seek nourishment after his long day, an oversight that brought to mind the emaciated, shambling hollows that sometimes made their way into the city....seeking something they couldn't even remember. He would never become that. 

Sliding out from under the limp weight of the arm Smough had thrown over his waist, Ornstein stooped to retrieve his crumpled trousers and the light shirt he wore under his armor. There was little point in donning the intricate armor, it wasn't as if he was going to find enemies swarming the kitchens. Even if someone did make it as far as the old passageways and rooms behind the cathedral, the ever vigilant knights in their charred-black armor would have no trouble dealing with them.

The hallways were typically quiet and unlit, the charred knights unmoving at their posts and Ornstein relaxed until he saw the unexpected light shining from beneath the door to the kitchens. 

Cursing himself for a fool, Ornstein gestured at one of the black-armored knights, irritated beyond reason when it didn't even look in his direction. Had they gone so hollow they no longer cared about the presence of an interloper in the city of the gods?

Edging closer to the door, Ornstein could see movement~shadows cast against the light and hear the soft clink of silverware. Some thief then, no doubt lured here by the promise of riches left by the absent Lords. How dare someone think to profane this place with their petty greed?!

Ornstein tensed, reaching slowly for the door. Even without his armor or spear, or apparently the assistance of the unconcerned knights, he was confident he could kill one sneaking thief without much trouble. Whoever they were, they were brazen to think they could ransack the cathedral and escape unnoticed. 

The moving shadow halted close to the door and Ornstein smiled grimly, an amateur mistake and one that would allow him to get an immediate advantage. Silently turning the door handle until the door was loose in it's frame he suddenly flung his weight against it. The heavy door swung inwards, flooding the hallway with brilliant light and connecting solidly with someone who yelped with pain. Half blinded, Ornstein crowded the trespasser, landing a powerful blow against their ribs with a closed fist and following through with a shove to the collarbone that dropped his opponent faster than he expected. 

Then the light went out and Dragonslayer Ornstein, Captain of the Knights of Gwyn, realized he was going to die. 

There were times that Ornstein had questioned his ability to survive a battle he had followed his Lords into. The firstborn in particular had led him gloriously into wars that had seemed impossible until his miracles split the skies and turned the tides of battle in their favor; but never before had he been so utterly certain of his imminent demise.

Even though he hadn't seen much of Gwyn's lastborn, the reclusive caretaker of Anor Londo, he was rather distinct up close. From the pale, gauzy robes (now rather disheveled and dusty) to the ornate golden sunburst crown that framed a mouth that hung slack in shock.....or at least Ornstein hoped it was shock, from the way one delicate hand was clutching at his ribs, it could simply be that Lord Gwyndolin couldn't breath. 

There was absolutely nothing Ornstein could possibly say to excuse his behavior, no possible explanation could excuse striking a member of the old royalty. He watched, silent and aghast as Gwyndolin stared back at him, mouth settling into a tight, unhappy line, and waited for the sorcery that would strip his flesh from his bones. 

A warning flicker of light made Ornstein close his eyes. If he was to die he would do so with stoic dignity, and hope that his death could somehow, in some small part, make up for his transgression. He took a deep breath, then another....and another. It took an unusually long time for Ornstein to realize he wasn't dead, he hadn't been seared with sorcery, and he was, in fact, alone. 

The empty kitchen smelled faintly of mint, the scent rising from a steaming mug that had been abandoned on the table beside an open book and a plate of sliced fruit. Guilt spiked through Ornstein as he stared at the small meal, a moment of peace and normalcy he had ruined with his foolishness...if it was within his power to make any kind of amends he wouldn't hesitate. 

Adding a slice of honeyed bread to the plate along with a wedge of sharp cheese, Ornstein warily picked up the abandoned book, sure that it would contain sorceries he shouldn't view. Curiously, it wasn't anything more threatening than a detailed description of a travelers journey through distant lands, interspersed with stunningly detailed, painted illustrations. Tucking the tome under one arm, he picked up plate and mug and padded out of the kitchen, his own hunger forgotten. 

“Fine work,” Ornstein snapped sarcastically to the statuesque black knight, resisting the petty urge to kick it passing. Smough was going to laugh. 

____________________________________________________________________

Ornstein approached the swirling fog with trepidation. This was either going to gain him some manner of favor, or it was going to be viewed as mockery that would rouse the Dark Sun to fury. 

Carefully setting his burdens down between the cheerfully blazing candles, Ornstein bowed to the featureless barricade. “Good night, my Lord.....and I am truly sorry.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ornstein is getting dangerously close to being cute, Smough is an enabler of the worst kind.

“It's not funny, Smough!” Ornstein clenched his fist tighter around the haft of his spear and struggled to contain the desire to unleash a lightning charge at his partner. 

Sparring was usually an excellent way to both pass the time and maintain battle readiness in a city that was too deserted to provide any regular combat practice. Ornstein and Smough had been working together long enough to ensure that they never acquired any injuries worse than the occasional bruise or burn. That and deeply wounded pride.

Smough sat his hammer down with exaggerated care and leaned against the handle, his armored body shuddering. A booming laugh faded to a rasping wheeze before the executioner wavered upright, looked over at Ornstein, sucked in a breath and started the whole ridiculous noise all over again. 

“Is this really necessary?”

Ornstien knew, the second the words had left his mouth, that telling Smough about his disastrous, late-night kitchen visit was a grievous mistake. Smough was not one to comprehend the level of his transgression, or to understand why Ornstein had spent the last several days awaiting the precise moment when the wronged party finally decided to smite him where he stood. 

“Is that what you've been doing with all the extra food you've been filching from the kitchen?” Smough recovered enough to ask, although his voice quavered with repressed laughter. “And here I thought you were trying to bulk up those skinny arms of yours.”

“I don't have skinny arms, you overstuffed lout!” Ornstein snapped, irritated that he was allowing himself to be provoked. “And I wasn't 'filching' anything.”

It was most likely either guilt or self preservation that had prompted Ornstein to start taking regular meals down to the fog shrouded tomb where Gwyndolin stood watch. There was a sense of satisfaction each time he found that his offering had disappeared, although he questioned what he was going to do when the dwindling supplies of plates and silverware eventually ran out. 

“If you absolutely must know, “ Ornstein reasoned, deliberately ignoring Smough's continued amusement. “I am simply concerned that lord Gwyndolin is neglecting his own well-being. It is my duty to make sure that is not so.”

“Concern and duty?” Smough wandered over and thumped a heavy hand on Ornstein's armored shoulder in mocking commiseration. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

“Just stop.” 

Distance was the easiest way to end a conversation, and Ornstein fled with the last shreds of his dignity intact. Smough's booming footsteps behind him at least drowned out his occasional chuckle and prevented him from voicing anymore unwelcome observations. 

By the time Ornstein reached their shared quarters, his irritation had cooled to a slow, simmering discontent and Smough had thankfully exhausted his repertoire of amused noises. That might have been the blessed end of the conversation if it wasn't for the utterly unexpected gift sitting in the middle of the daily clutter strewn across their table. 

There was little opportunity to acquire the materials needed to convince the giant smith to put additional work into their weapons or armor. Other than looting the occasional trespasser or hopeful kindling, most of whom were lucky to have two titanite shards to rub together, Ornstein wasn't sure when he'd last seen anything worth bothering the smith with. 

The two chunks of demon titanite sharing space with some papers that Smough had decorated with vulgar drawings and a half-eaten loaf of bread, were clearly some sort of joke. A well crafted illusion that would lead to a lesson in hubris, and then probably a swift death. 

Ornstein reached out and slowly poked one chunk with his finger, it rocked solidly, the runes on its surface gleaming slightly. Not an illusion then. 

Smough peered over Ornstein's shoulder and whistled appreciatively. “I just might start feeding your little lordling too.”

___________________________________________________________________

“Hello?” Ornstein said after several minutes of watching the smith tap delicately at his latest project. Whatever it was, the giant was utterly consumed with it's creation, to the point that he actually jerked in surprise at the interruption. 

“Mnn, know you come.” The blacksmith very delicately set his work aside and nodded ponderously at Ornstein. “Snake friend say. I forge spear better.”

“Snake friend?!” Ornstein barked, half amused and half shocked. He barely had the presence of mind to tip the titanite into the patient smith's waiting hand; did nobody in this city have any semblance of respect for their Lord? 

“Yes.” The giant turned the pieces of titanite over and peered at them. “Snake friend talk. Sad. I remember before. Make happy.”

The blacksmith held out his hand, and Ornstein reluctantly handed over his spear, watching nervously as the giant tapped at the tapered blade with his hammer. Apparently satisfied, he moved on to poking at the crossguard, making curious rumbling noises under his breath. 

“Before?” Ornstein eventually asked. “Before what?” 

“Mmmnn,” The giant seemed to consider his answer for a long time, eventually holding up one hand and counting out his answer on his fingers. “Everyone gone. Father gone. Brother gone. Sister gone. Very sad. I help.”

There were few things that could make Ornstein feel small, but the blunt assessment of the genial smith felt like being hit by Smough's great hammer. He could almost imagine himself crumpling into a heap under the weight of it. 

No matter how much Ornstein missed his knights, his _friends_ , and longed for the brash companionship of Gwyn's heir....he was never truly alone. He had Smough, ridiculous, teasing Smough who somehow knew exactly how to pester him out of his black moods, and who could take him apart with such incredible ease. The thought of being without that companionship, even if it was often crass and utterly vulgar, was unimaginable. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Ornstein said faintly. The faint stirrings of guilt that had been building over the last several days flared as hot as flame. The image of the gentle blacksmith and Gwyndolin, bereft of friends and family, spending their time recounting memories of happier times was going to eat at him.

“Welcome.” The smith rumbled, apparently oblivious to how effecting his words had been. “I forge. You come back?”

“Of course.” At a loss, Ornstein left the giant tapping happily at his spear. He had a great deal to think about, hopefully Smough would be willing to provide some manner of distraction.

____________________________________________________________________

Everything hurt. It wasn't the sharp, wrong discomfort of a battle wound, but more a spreading ache that weighed Ornstein down as much as Smough's muscular bulk against his back. It was enough to drive all unwelcome thoughts from his head and keep his mind on the hazy afterglow of pleasure.

“You alright?” As always, Smough was a ball of worry once the heat of the moment had died down. Big hands carefully brushed tangled, sweaty hair back out of Ornstein's eyes and soothed over the rising bruises on his hips. “I'll get you some estus.”

Ornstein groaned in wordless protest. Even though he knew it was necessary, what good was a cathedral guardian who couldn't walk right, he wanted to savor the moment. It was rare thing to rouse Smough to such savagery, and the enjoyment was actually starting to override the inevitable guilt as his own base desires. 

Stretching tentatively, Ornstein winced at the sting in his back and shoulder. How was it that the strange thrill of having Smough's teeth in his flesh had gone from a foul, unclean act to one that he relished. 

Smough was actually trying to be quiet, which resulted in noise not unlike a taurus demon loose in a pottery kiln. Ornstein laughed silently into his pillow as as the unmistakable sound of a bare foot impacting the solidly hewn leg of the table resulted in a stream of curses that would make a hollow blush. Then a bottle of estus was being held to his mouth and he swallowed the fiery liquid without complaint, Smough would cajole and pester him mercilessly if he refused. 

“Hmmm,” Smough mused as he settled back down, relaxed now that the estus had spread through Ornstein's body and erased the obvious signs of their vicious coupling. He ran a hand down Ornstein's back, fingers tracing old scars from almost forgotten battles. “That was good.”

“Smough...” Ornstein started, keeping his face firmly pressed into his pillow. “Do you have any books?”

“Books?” Smough said in disbelief. “What do you want...ah. You're fishing for more titanite. That's clever.” 

“I'm not fishing for...” Ornstein raised his head with a scowl and looked at the giant grin that was stretched across Smough's face. “I hate you.”

“I'm sure you can find something lying around,” Smough actually dared to reach out to ruffle Ornstein's hair, his grin undiminished. “Or you could always take your lordling some of my drawings, that'd make for a good conversation.”

Ornstein had discovered early on that Smough had an unexpectedly good eye, a deft hand, and absolutely no shame. It wasn't unusual to find sketches littering any flat space in their quarters, often depicting him in rather explicit states of undress, simply so that the executioner could enjoy his inevitable humiliation. 

There had even been rumors that the noble Artorius had given coin for a particularly risque sketch of the Lord's Blade Ciaran, although Ornstein truly hoped that was little more than idle gossip.

“No. Thank you.” Ornstein said flatly, hoping his utter disinterest might dissuade the conversation from going further. Determined, he closed his eyes in the hope that sleep would descend immediately and spare him any further suggestions, but Smough wasn't one to be deterred so easily. 

“I could do some just for you.” Smough spoke directly into Ornstein's ear. “I could guess what your pretty little lord looks like without his skirts; wonder how far up the snakes go. You can tell me later if I got it right.”

“You will do no such thing!” Ornstein buried his face back into the bedding, hopefully hiding the damning flush that he could feel burning across his face. Sleep was going to be a long time coming. 

___________________________________________________________________

The first sign that anything was amiss was that the old lift mechanism was not in the position that Ornstein had left it in the previous day. It wasn't unfathomable to think that one of Gwyndolin's blades had used it to descend and pay tribute with a handful of grisly trophies torn from the guilty, but it was strange that they were still there.

The grinding contraption seemed to take longer than usual and Ornstein shifted nervously. Up on the parapets, one of the demon messengers screeched, rustling its wings in agitation. He should have asked Smough to come with him.....

The sounds of battle were obvious as soon as the lift finished it's descent, the roar of sorcery and the clash of blades audible even over the rumble of the ancient gears. Ornstein was running as soon as the entrance to the tomb was in sight, the spear he had come here to give thanks for clenched in his hand. 

A ragged hollow was down and twitching on the stairs above where the swirling fog normally hung, his once ornate armor hanging in tatters from emaciated limbs. Ornstein drove the blade of his spear in under the visored helmet and twisted savagely, separating the spine with a dull crunch. 

Ornstein barely registered that he was trespassing on sacred ground as he dashed across the usually obscured threshold and into a hallway that seemed to bend and warp unnaturally in his vision. Another hollow had been felled just inside, a single golden arrow jutting out from one cavernous eye socket and several more bristling in his throat. Lord Gwyndolin was clearly anything but helpless. 

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, rank after rank of stone statues that faded into a faint golden light. Distant combatants seemed impossibly far away, and as Ornstein ran forward it felt like he wasn't moving. Then in a wave of disorientation the illusion fell away, and he was in a short hallway watching Gwyndolin drop to his knees as a hulking knight slashed at him. 

Ornstein's response was automatic, the lightning charge in his spear carrying him forward into a lunge that blasted the hollow into the wall. An inexplicable rage surged in him as the knight struggled to rise, and he drove the blade of his spear down so hard the crackling tip drove deep into the floor, pinning the struggling hollow down with the crossguard. 

“Are you alright, my lord?” Ornstein suddenly felt very unsure. Was he supposed to offer assistance, apologize for his trespass, beg forgiveness for his previous transgressions? 

Gwyndolin was leaning against the wall and clutching one shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers to stain his white robes. “He struck me!” he half wailed, voice slightly shrill with shocked outrage. Peeling one hand away from his wound, the young lord stared at the blood on his palm and grimaced. “Why would he do such a thing, he was sworn to my service...” 

“He's long hollow, as were the others. They knew little better.” Ornstein went to one knee, reaching out tentatively. “May I help?” 

“If you wish to,” Gwyndolin said loftily, as if he was conferring some great favor; an affected arrogance that would have been more effective if there wasn't an edge of pleading behind his words. He shivered slightly when Ornstein pulled his gauntlets off to prod at the bloody wound, the serpents that comprised his lower legs shifting in a way that seemed nervous. 

It wasn't as bad as Ornstein had first feared. A shallow, jagged slash that was messy and surely painful, but certainly not life threatening. Gwyndolin's elder brother would have laughed it off, probably made a bloody mess everywhere before seeking Ornstein out to....

“Estus will heal this easily, my lord.” Ornstein cursed himself for a fool for not having a flask with him, when had he become so damnably complacent. Before he could open his mouth to apologize, booming footsteps reverberated through the hall and Smough barreled down the stairs and into the hallway like an unstoppable juggernaut. 

“Estus!” Ornstein barked, hoping to forestall any ill-timed flippancy on the executioner's part. 

“Ornstein, are you hurt?” It was hard to tell, with Smough's face hidden by the lifeless face on his towering helmet, but he sounded almost....scared? “The messengers were making such a racket I thought something had happened....”

“No, I'm fine.” Ornstein grabbed for the flask that Smough fumbled into his grip. “Drink this, my lord.”

“Huh.” Smough prodded at the pinned hollow with one foot. “You only got one, Ornstein? You're slipping.”

“I can assure you that Dragonslayer Ornstein performed admirably.” Gwyndolin interjected immediately, clearly rallying under the effects of the estus. There was a droplet of the fiery liquid clinging to the curve of his lower lip that Ornstein was determinedly not looking at.

“Oh, that I don't doubt.” Smough yanked Ornstein's spear out of the fallen hollow and almost casually brought his hammer down, flattening the knight's helmet and skull in one easy blow. “He can be very dashing when he wants to be.”

“I had noticed.” Gwyndolin said quietly, and then found something utterly fascinating to investigate on the hem of one sleeve. It was hard to get any read on his expression, with the ornate, golden sun-crown covering most of his face, but Ornstein could have sworn the lord was slightly flushed.

“You want this, or can I have it?” Smough asked eagerly, pointing down at the knight with the grotesquely flattened head. Couldn't he at least _pretend_ to not be so damnably gleeful, his enthusiasm was bordering on the obscene. 

Ornstein half expected a violent response, since Smough seemed to be doing his cheerful best to be utterly irreverent, but Gwyndolin seemed oddly unbothered. “Please, take it. His traitorous actions taint this place.”

“I'll make sure the other ones are dealt with too.” Smough sounded revoltingly excited by the prospect. “Are you staying here, Ornstein?”

“I wouldn't want to detain you if you have other tasks, Dragonslayer.” There was a not so subtle note of hope in Gwyndolin's voice that solidified Ornstein's resolve in a heartbeat.

“I'm staying.”

“I thought you might.” That smug, self satisfied tone was back in Smough's bass voice, and Ornstein just knew the insufferable fool was grinning beneath his helm. “Don't do anything that I wouldn't!”

“What is it that executioner Smough doesn't do?” Gwyndolin asked eagerly.

“Nothing that I am aware of.” Ornstein glared daggers at Smough's broad back as the executioner ambled up the hallway, dragging the hollow knight behind him until he disappeared through the haze of fog that hung over the entrance once again. “Please ignore his flippancy, my lord.”

“If you think I should.” Gwyndolin sounded slightly disappointed, which Ornstein really didn't want to think about. 

Feeling slightly awkward, Ornstein pulled off his helm and sat down next to Gwyndolin, resting his back against the stone wall and propping his spear against his shoulder. He wasn't sure if he should speak, or maintain a silence that was more in keeping with the solemnity of the silent tomb. He was absolutely certain he wasn't supposed to be distracted by what he could see of Gwyndolin's milk-white skin through the torn shoulder of his robes, and wondering absently if it was as soft as it looked. 

“Thank you for the titanite.” Ornstein eventually said, if only to break the silence and distract himself from his increasingly inappropriate thoughts. “The smith did an exceptional work.”

“I'm glad.” Gwyndolin sounded tired, and Ornstein felt immediately guilty. Here he was entertaining embarrassingly lurid fantasies while his lord was clearly exhausted from being attacked and wounded. Gwyn strike him down for his presumption. 

“If you want to rest, my lord, I will keep watch.” 

“Thank you,” Gwyndolin said hesitantly, clearly not used to thanking anybody for anything. 

At this point, Ornstein expected Gwyndolin to retreat to the inner recesses of the tomb, or wherever private place it was he slept. The absolute last thing he expected was for him to edge closer and lay his head on Ornstein's armored shoulder with a sigh that sounded dangerously close to contented. It was so unexpected that by the time Ornstein thought to open his mouth to question it, the young lord was a limp weight against his arm.

It was quite possibly the most uncomfortable Ornstein had ever been. The stonework was frigid, one of the spines from Gwyndolin's crown was dangerously close to his eye, and he wouldn't have moved if the fires of Izalith had burst through the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwyndolin's gender is something I've seen a lot of discussion about, so I'm going to approach it in a way that hopefully wont step on any toes. (or snakes) Gwyndolin is referred to as male in game, both in lore descriptions and by other characters....though I'm not totally sold on that, and often consider them as a trans-woman (and there's some lovely stories on AO3 with her written as such), I'm going to stick with male pronouns for now. I may go back and change to female, or at least gender neutral. I truly wish I could just drop by Anor Londo and ask how they would prefer to be referred too, would make everything so much easier.  
> Thanks to everyone who has been reading and commenting, you are all awesome & opinions on this would be very, very welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwyndolin discovers the wonders of explicit artwork, Ornstein has a bath, and it isn't Smough's birthday~but it might as well be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait, went to Flu-Town (blighttown, lol) and stayed there for two miserable weeks. I'll try to not make everyone wait on the upcoming smut.

_“Hello!”_

Ornstein sighed as Smough kicked the carving again. The graven face, grinning it's idiots grin, bounced across the flagstones before coming to a stop and uttering it's cheerful greeting yet again. Although he didn't begrudge Gough his retirement, Ornstein did wish the archer had taken his talking carvings away with him rather than hide them in such curious places around the city. Every time Smough found one of the things he made himself an utter nuisance with it for days. 

_“Hello!”_

“Smough, please...”

“I would much rather talk about what happened yesterday.” Smough said cheerfully, drawing one foot back and looking over at Ornstein.

“How many times do I have to tell you that nothing happened!” Ornstein couldn't help the frustration that crept into his voice. Smough's insistence that some manner of carnal impropriety had occurred the second he had left Ornstein alone with Gwyndolin was as vehement as Ornstein's insistence that it had not.

_“Hello!”_

Within his leonine helm, Ornstein gritted his teeth. The last carving Smough had found, a particularly rotund little thing that intoned 'very good!' in a vaguely sarcastic tone, had haunted him everywhere from the privy to the bathing room for the better part of a week. Never again. 

_“Hello!”_

“That is enough!” Deciding that immaturity was far preferable to enduring that babbling scrap of wood, Ornstein dodged in front of Smough and kicked the carving as hard as he could. Still grinning cheerfully, it ricocheted off the bottom of the cathedral steps with a sharp crack and sailed off the edge of the walkway. 

“Now that was very rude.” Smough said mildly, peering into the depths where, Ornstein was sure, the stupid little carving was greeting the very foundations of Anor Londo. “I'm starting to think you might be telling the truth, nobody could be that grumpy otherwise.”

“That's what I've been telling you. Repeatedly.” 

“Well I thought you were being shy,” Smough started up the steps at a jaunty pace. It always surprised Ornstein how fast his partner could move in his massive armor. “Now I'm just disappointed.” 

“I'm so sorry that my honorable decisions interfere with your vulgar voyeurism, Smough.” Ornstein said sarcastically. 

“You should be,” Smough replied cheerfully. “Now you'll have to make it up to me.”

“I can't imagine how.” Ornstein managed to keep his voice disinterested, the frozen snarl of his helm thankfully hiding the flush he could feel on his cheeks and the mortifying hitch in his breath. It was ridiculous, no more dignified that a hound salivating over a bone. 

The cathedral always seemed dim in comparison to the constant sunlight outside, but Ornstein barely noticed as Smough took the opportunity to muscle him into the closest wall. Before he could voice a protest, Smough was looming over him, an armored knee pressing up between his legs and all Ornstein could do was gasp and do his level best to seem disinterested rather than rutting against the pressure like an ill mannered cur. 

“Oh, we playing this game?” Smough sounded amused, and when he tugged his helm off, his trademark grin was plastered across his face. “Of course you would never enjoy this, not the great and honorable Captain Ornstein.” 

The knee hitched a bit higher and Ornstein couldn't help but press into it a little bit, the pressure doing little more than tease through the confinement of his own armor. Smough's infernal grin was expanding and Ornstein was sorely tempted to punch him in his smug face. Then those huge hands were squeezing his hips almost hard enough to hurt, pulling him against him in a slightly awkward rhythm and Ornstein couldn't do much more than make a soft, broken noise in the back of his throat. 

“You know what I want?” Smough asked, his voice deeper and rougher than it had been moments ago. 

“Do I care?”

Smough acknowledged Ornsteins breathy snark with a deep, fond laugh. “Depends, I could always leave you like this. Or, or you could go make yourself ready for me.....It's all up to you, Captain.”

It was pointless to glare at Smough, but Ornstein did it anyway. Damn the man for using his own desires against him. “I suppose I could,” Ornstein said archly. “If you could stop pawing at me for a moment.”

Smough let go and Ornstein almost gasped at the sudden loss of contact, leaning against the wall while his body, traitorous flesh that it was, wanted to sprint for their quarters. Forcing himself to a decorously slow walk, Ornstein brushed imaginary dirt from one shoulder guard and did his uncomfortable best to move slowly enough to rile Smough with his defiance. He had been far too smug of late. 

Out of sight of his fidgeting partner, Ornstein stripped off his helm and gloves, the cool air drying the sweat on his skin. Despite being utterly irritated by Smough's presumption, his fingers were already busy undoing the catches on his armor as he strode into their quarters and froze because, once again, there was something utterly unexpected on his table. 

Gwyndolin wasn't wearing his ornate crown, having opted for a simple hood pulled low over his face, and was clutching a sheaf of papers in one hand that Ornstein recognized, with a sinking feeling, as some of Smough's. With his serpentine legs twined comfortably around the table legs, the young lord looked so startled by his abrupt arrival that Ornstein had the uncomfortable feeling that he was interrupting. Again. In his own room. 

His armor was starting to slip down one shoulder, and Ornstein grabbed awkwardly for it; trying to bow while not losing his chestplate was more difficult than it should have been. It didn't help that Gwyndolin kept staring, eyes flickering from paper to knight as if making some kind of mental comparison. 

Ornstein was under the impression that there really wasn't much that could make this situation more bizarre, but of course he had been underestimating Smough's ability to be as loud and inappropriate as possible. 

“You had better be naked!” Smough bellowed from the hallway before charging into the room like a rampaging bull and faltering to a disappointed stop when he saw their guest. “What are you doing here?!”

If Ornstein hadn't been so mortified, he would have found the look of confusion on Gwyndolin's pale face to be funny; it was clear he was unused to being spoken to, never mind spoken to like that. 

“I was unaware I had to be invited.” Gwyndolin replied archly, his haughty head tilt somewhat ruined by the fact that he was still hanging on to Smough's horrendous drawings like he was afraid someone was going to snatch them from him.

“Well, you should have shown up about five minutes from now,” Smough said conversationally, starting to tug his armor off. “You would have got an eyeful.” 

“I wouldn't have been adverse,” Gwyndolin said, watching Smough remove his armor with an avid curiosity that was slightly disturbing. By the time the executioner was down to a pair of leather trousers that didn't leave a whole lot to the imagination, Gwyndolin was looking downright surprised. “You are not malformed?”

It wasn't often that Ornstein got to watch Smough be rendered speechless by anything, and he manfully had to stifle a chuckle at his partner's expression. 

“No?” Smough eventually said slowly, looking over at Ornstein as if hoping for an explanation. 

“Why then do you wear such hideous armor?”

Ornstein closed his eyes. Smough's armor had been a cruel joke on the part of Gwyn's knights, and one that Ornstein deeply regretted ever being a part of. It had seemed amusing at the time: commission grotesque, mocking armor for the brutish executioner who dared to think himself their equal. It had taken years for Smough to wear his armor as a badge of honor rather than a mark of shame, but he was still notoriously touchy about the subject. 

There was a long moment of silence, in which Ornstein was sure he was going to hear the sound of Smough's great hammer flattening the last person he was sworn to serve and protect. Instead he heard the unexpected ring of laughter.

“If your brother had spent a little less time rolling Ornstein, he could have taught you manners.” Smough threw back his head and laughed at the offended look on Gwyndolin's face. “If you must know, that armor was supposedly a joke. I'm not hiding behind it.”

“Oh. That was cruel.” Gwyndolin ducked his head, hiding the sudden sympathy on his face behind the folds of his hood. “I shall have the smith make you better armor, yours should be beautiful like Dragonslayer Ornstein's.”

Smough smiled, it wasn't a mocking smirk, but an honest, gentle expression that Ornstein had only seen a treasured few times. “That's kind of you, but I'm not one for fancy things. I'll leave that to Ornstein here.” Smough put a finger under Gwyndolin's chin and raised his head, “I'm starting to see why he's been making a fool of himself over you lately.”

“I have not!” Ornstein protested, feeling like the situation was utterly out of his control. The sight of Smough's broad, scarred hand against Gwyndolin's pale skin was making Ornstein feel utterly grateful that he hadn't removed any of the lower sections of his armor. There was no need to add personal humiliation to the confusion. 

It was bad enough that Ornstein had allowed his obsession to interfere with his duty, but the pleasure he got from watching Smough put a big hand on Gwyndolin's thigh, thumb rubbing soothingly through the thin material of his robes, was almost ridiculous. The half of him that knew he should reprimand Smough for manhandling a son of Gwyn was at war with the half that hoped the executioner wouldn't stop. 

Smough looked over at Ornstein expectantly and then shook his head in disgust when he remained frozen in place “I think we are going to have to get his attention,” Smough said genially to Gwyndolin as if he was suggesting they should have tea. “He'll stoically ignore subtlety otherwise.”

“I am content to defer to your experience in this matter.” Gwyndolin gasped slightly when Smough pulled him to the edge of the table, his serpentine lower legs tentatively curling around the executioner's thighs as he moved in closer. “I know little of such things.”

So Ornstein stood there, feeling as gormless as a headshot hollow, as Smough took Gwyndolin's face between his hands and kissed him with a thoroughness that was clearly very much appreciated. Any doubts Ornstein had that he was about to watch his partner die for overstepping the last decent boundary he had were discarded when Gwyndolin moaned into the executioner's mouth, long fingered hands digging into Smough's close-cropped hair. 

“Damn,” Smough breathed when he finally pulled away, looking a bit stunned by the intensity of Gwyndolin's response. He brushed his thumb over the lord's lower lip and raised an eyebrow at his partner. “You going to come over here, Ornstein?” Smough's question was punctuated by Gwyndolin's look of clear invitation. 

Ornstein had roused armies to battle fury with a few well spoken words, he had turned the Knights of Gwyn into an elite force through his leadership, his speeches binding them into a unified, honorable unit. Artorius had been known to say his golden armor was only rivaled by his golden tongue. This time, however, Ornstein's trademark loquacity failed, and his breathless, open mouth disgorged nothing but a few embarrassing, nonsensical noises. 

It took a few horrible seconds for the eagerness on Gwyndolin's pale face to slip, replaced by confusion and then hurt. He was gone a heartbeat after that, disappearing in a hazy flash of white, leaving Smough standing awkwardly in front of an empty table as paper slowly drifted to the floor around him. 

“You...” Smough said in a tone of condescension and utter, crawling disgust as he turned to fix Ornstein with a withering stare. “You are an idiot.”

____________________________________________________________________

 

Ornstein leaned his head back against the edge of the sunken bath and closed his eyes as the water's warmth seeped into his body. The night had been a long one, as Smough had been determined to leave him aching and untouched before beginning an irritating, solicitous campaign of inquiring after Ornstein's health every few minutes. Morning had brought more anxious displays of concern, usually centering around, as Smough crassly phrased it, the worry that Ornstein's balls had taken leave of his body and disappeared.

Quickly tiring of the ribbing, and of watching Smough pretend to search for his supposedly missing body parts under the furniture, Ornstein spent the day in secluded training. Running through exercises that left his body aching and his forearms half numb from the constant lightning flickering across his skin. More than anything he wished for a true opponent, a few minutes to lose himself in the mindless, bloody finality of battle....anything to distract himself from his own mortifying failures the night before.

Ornstein could almost imagine how Gwyn's firstborn would have laughed at his predicament. He had never been one for the subtle negotiations of romance, he fought and fucked with a wild, unstoppable energy; fierce and unpredictable. Ornstein had hardly known of the lord's interest before he'd found himself tumbled into his bed, a situation that thankfully bypassed all the dangerous pitfalls of negotiating such an arrangement. There was something to be said for such an approach, if only he dared....

“Executioner Smough suggested I hit you with a heavy object.” Gwyndolin said unexpectedly into the peaceful silence of the bathing room. “I did not see the wisdom in doing so, however.”

Ornstein lunged upright with a yowl, slopping water in all directions and fumbling blindly for his spear. It was only after hauling it into a defensive position that Ornstein realized that he must look ridiculous, and that wielding a lightning imbued weapon while waist deep in a bath was probably not the wisest choice. 

Gwyndolin seemed unperturbed by Ornstein's flailing, the tilt of his head suggesting he was staring resolutely over the dragonslayer's left shoulder. Once again in his impeccable, gold edged robes and flared crown he looked every inch the regal, intimidating lord. 

“Lord Gwyndolin,” Ornstein gasped out, debating the options of going for his trousers, or staying in the water. He felt oddly vulnerable in the face of Gwyndolin's cool indifference. “I apologize for my undress, I wasn't expecting...”

“You are bathing.” Gwyndolin interrupted flatly. “I scarcely expected you to be in full armor. I thought it time we spoke.”

Despite the odd level of calm in Gwyndolin's voice, Ornstein could see he was nervous. His hands were clenched around his gilded catalyst in a rictus grip, and beneath the pale robes his shoulders were rigid; Ornstein had seen men look more relaxed at the gallows.

“O...of course.” Ornstein wasn't sure what to do with his hands, and settled for folding his arms across his chest in feigned nonchalance. “what about?”

“You have served my family with unwavering loyalty for years, and I know you c..cared deeply for my brother. I hope my recent...lapse in judgment does not change your dedication.” Beneath the hem of his robes, Gwyndolin's serpent feet seemed determined to knot themselves into a ball. “As I explained to Executioner Smough, I...I have little experience with such matters, and as such I made assumptions about your dedication that I should not have. I wished to apologize, and assure you I will not interfere with your duties again.” 

There was a moment of silence and then Gwyndolin was raising one hand to cast the spell that allowed him to teleport and Ornstein lunged out of the water, shedding droplets and dignity as he went. 

“Wait!” Ornstein managed to get a handful of Gwyndolin's silk thin robes as he hauled himself upright, soaking the fine fabric in his enthusiasm. “Don't go.”

“Dragonslayer Ornstein!” Gwyndolin's mouth hardened into an sullen line as he looked at where Ornstein's hand was making a sodden, crumpled mess of his robes. “This is unseemly.”

It was, Ornstein agreed silently, utterly unseemly. It was also humiliatingly crass, uncharacteristically brazen, and bordering on blasphemy or treason, though he wasn't sure which. “I don't care.” 

Ornstein had long since resigned himself to the fact that he had betrayed Lord Gwyn's trust in him the moment he had found himself in both the first-born's service and his bed. He had promised himself that such a betrayal would never occur again, that he would serve the remnants of his Lord's family with selfless, chaste dedication. The fact that he had never had to tell himself not to manhandle Gwyn's youngest son in the bathing room said a great deal about how bizarre the situation had become. 

Gwyndolin somehow managed to maintain an air of aloof disinterest even when Ornstein kissed him with every ounce of frustration that had been building within him for weeks. It wasn't unlike embracing one of the statues that dotted the city, except stone didn't flush such a becoming color. 

“Dragonslayer....” Gwyndolin said softly. It might have been supposed to be a warning, but he made no move to leave.

“Do you wish me to stop?”

“No.” Gwyndolin sighed resignedly, looking a bit irritated to have to admit as such. “No, I do not.” 

Somehow, Ornstein had, when he dared to entertain such thoughts, thought that any carnal relations with his lord would be gentle, beautiful, and elegant. Around the time he'd gotten a hand up Gwyndolin's skirts high enough to confirm that the serpents turned to firm, smooth flesh from the knee upwards, and been bitten hard enough on the lip that he could taste blood, Ornstein realized that his timid fantasies were as insubstantial as his lord's illusions. 

As convenient as not having his armor on made the situation, Ornstein cursed his fumbling fingers as he struggled with Gwyndolin's ornate robes. He suspected the ornamented silks would have been difficult enough dry, but wet they were a clinging nightmare; sheer enough to hint at the flesh beneath but snarled enough to defy his best efforts. 

The whole situation would have been funny if Gwyndolin hadn't been doing something very distracting with his tongue along Ornstein's throat, which only made his fumbling seem worse by comparison. A soft huff of laughter against his skin was the last straw. 

“This isn't funny!” 

“Oh, it really is.” A deep, amused voice made Ornstein freeze. “It's actually hilarious.”

“Smough,” Ornstein growled, knowing he was certainly not in the best position to look threatening. “Get out.”

“And miss this?” Smough leaned back against the door and grinned, looking obscenely pleased with himself. “Such a pretty sight, and it's not even my birthing day.”

It was a terrible, humiliating stalemate. There was no possible dignified egress from the situation, no way of pretending he was solicitously giving his lord some assistance with his robes, or that he had simply fallen upwards out of the bath in a state of arousal. Ornstein hadn't hated Smough since the first tumultuous days of their partnership, centuries earlier, but he was dangerously close now. 

Gwyndolin made a small, displeased noise against Ornstein's skin, obviously put out by the sudden lack of attention. “If you wish,” he said softly in a tone that suggested he thought Ornstein was being a bit foolish. “We could go somewhere Executioner Smough would be unlikely to follow.”

“Please!” Ornstein was as close as he'd ever come to begging, except for a few nights with Smough that he would never admit to. If the floor had opened up and swallowed him, we would have welcomed it; and then he was regretting that though because it suddenly felt like it had. 

It took but a second for Ornstein to realize that, obviously, they wouldn't be leaving the bathing room in a mundane manner. In a heartbeat, Gwyndolin's magic dragged him from Smough's sight so swiftly that it felt like his stomach, and possibly him mind had remained behind. When the vertiginous rush abruptly stopped, Ornstein was vaguely aware of lying on his back while lights flickered and darkened in front of his eyes.

A ceiling swam in Ornstein's blurred vision, and he closed his eyes to keep dizziness at bay. Voices seemed to echo around him, one frantic and the other calm. He wasn't entirely sure exactly what was happening, only that there was something soft beneath him, a gauntleted hand was probing coldly at his skull, and whenever he found out about this misadventure, Smough was going to laugh.


End file.
